


My world's on fire (how 'bout yours)

by Builder



Series: Nat on Fire [11]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Eating Disorders, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Natasha Romanov Is Not A Robot, Protective Steve Rogers, Sickfic, Steve Rogers & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Vomiting, laxitive abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:26:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22887031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Builder/pseuds/Builder
Summary: It’s not supposed to happen this way.Nat rests her cheek on the toilet seat.  It’s gone sticky with either her sweat or her vomit; she doesn’t care much which, and she’s certainly not going to take any steps to find out. Her gorge rises again, and she lets the preemptive saliva run out the side of her mouth.  It hangs in a long rope that refuses to touch down into the cloudy water.  Nat’s sure that if it did, it would part company with her lip, and she could tidy herself up.  But no such luck.Her stomach gives an ominous gurgle, and Nat clenches her abdominal muscles.  “No,” she growls, giving the side eye to foil packet of laxatives that didn’t quite make it into the trash can.  It’s the second packet.  Her hands got shaky and her gut started doing somersaults before she could successfully lob it across the tiny bathroom.It’s not supposed to happen this way.______________________Nat on Fire 9.0
Series: Nat on Fire [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/796122
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	My world's on fire (how 'bout yours)

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on Tumblr @builder051

It’s not supposed to happen this way. 

Nat rests her cheek on the toilet seat. It’s gone sticky with either her sweat or her vomit; she doesn’t care much which, and she’s certainly not going to take any steps to find out. Her gorge rises again, and she lets the preemptive saliva run out the side of her mouth. It hangs in a long rope that refuses to touch down into the cloudy water. Nat’s sure that if it did, it would part company with her lip, and she could tidy herself up. But no such luck. 

Her stomach gives an ominous gurgle, and Nat clenches her abdominal muscles. “No,” she growls, giving the side eye to foil packet of laxatives that didn’t quite make it into the trash can. It’s the second packet. Her hands got shaky and her gut started doing somersaults before she could successfully lob it across the tiny bathroom. 

It’s not supposed to happen this way. 

They’re onto her at SHIELD; Fury giving her extra-long stares in meetings, Maria tapping her pen as Nat steps on the scale in her medical debriefs. Then there’s Steve, who practically lives with her when he’s not called away on missions of his own. “Just want to make sure you’re alright,” he says. “Because I care about you,” he says.

Plainly he doesn’t care enough. He took his bike back to Alexandria after the plane touched down last night, and Nat has seen neither hide nor hair of him since. Good riddance, she’d thought. So she’d hopped, skipped, and jumped straight to the pharmacy and loaded up on her favorite brand of laxatives. They’ve updated the font on the box, and the colors are a little brighter since the decade has changed, but the formulation is the same. Nat has the ingredients list memorized. She could probably formulate the medication herself if she had access to all the right -ics and -ates. 

Nat’s rock-hard core can only prevent the inevitable for so long, and when the pit of her stomach begins to feel as though it’s scorching on a bed of hot coals, she reluctantly lets go, leaning forward and letting sourness spill over her tongue again. 

She tastes the plasticky reddish coating. It’s slightly sweet, and Nat finds herself wondering vaguely how much sucralose is swimming in her stomach. Or maybe aspartame. Or even maltitol. That would be a fitting choice. She nearly snorts, but it becomes a heave. A wave of pinkish fluid, chunky with mucous flows into the toilet slowly, almost languidly, as if it’s just dying to choke her on an ill-timed breath.

Nat spits hard, then squeezes her pelvic floor again. She’ll do just about anything in her power to keep from losing her bowels all over the bathmat. For a second she considers clawing her way up the tank and plopping down on the toilet seat, but that would be too much effort. And inviting the worst. No, she’ll stay in her current position, thank you very much.

She’s about to lie the side of her face down again when an infernal buzzing fills her ears. The bathroom may be the size of a matchbox, but the subway tiling makes it echo like Grand Central Station. She glances sideways at her phone, balanced on the lip of the bathtub, and rotating slightly with each thrumming vibration. 

It’s Steve’s picture that pops up on the screen, a jaunty shot of him in a leather jacket, standing beside his bike. Nat scoffs. The image is practically half a decade in age, but she still feels jealousy along with the pain in the pit of her stomach. He’s out having fun, or whatever, while she’s cooped up doing… this.

This is her choice, though. And it’s her choice whether to answer the call. She bites her lip, tasting a tinge of coppery blood through the sourness and sweetness that are already there. Nat rolls her eyes, then regrets it almost immediately. It bypasses making her head hurt and goes straight to her stomach, ramping up the nausea and forcing her to roll to face the mess in the toilet water once more.

The phone stops ringing as she pukes up air and not much else. Nat sighs in relief, though she’s careful not to relax her body too much. But her temper spikes again quickly when the devices begins to vibrate again almost immediately. 

“Can’t you just shut the fuck up?” she mumbles, swatting a hand in the phone’s general direction. The phone stubbornly ignores her. 

“Right.”

Not trusting herself to stray far from the toilet, Nat uses her foot to knock the device onto the floor so she can pick it up. She snags it in her clammy grip and snorts in distaste before swiping at the green answer button.

“Yeah?” she asks gruffly, hoping the hoarseness in her voice will be lost to a combination of bad mood and bad signal.

“You ok?” Steve asks on the other end of the crackling line. “I know it’s been a few days.”

Nat wonders if any of her old lines will work on him. _I’ve got the stomach flu,_ she considers saying. _I ate some bad takeout_.

“Having a smoke,” she decides on. At least it’ll explain the note of guilt in her voice. 

“In the bathroom?” Steve asks. Of course he can hear the echo. Of course he can.

Nat struggles to think on her feet. “Gotta avoid the smoke detectors somehow.” She tries to grin, but loosening her mouth makes other parts of her body loose as well. She clenches again and bares her teeth.

“Want me to come over? Between the two of us we can probably rewire it–”

“No,” Nat interrupts. The only reason she hasn’t already done so is because the place is a rental. On the very real chance that a spark from her gun or the ash from a joint hit the carpet, she doesn’t want to be in trouble with management. She decides to throw in a touch of shade, just for good measure. “Like I’d need your help with a project like that.”

“Oh. Sure.” Steve sounds properly chagrined. “But still, I could pick up something. Korean barbecue, or something.”

Nat tries not to spill her guts again. From any direction. “I don’t like barbecue. From any country,” she says snootily. 

“Right…” She can tell Steve’s trying to fact check her. “But weren’t you at Clint’s thing–?”

“I don’t like it,” Nat insists, which probably does the opposite of any good. She just doesn’t feel well enough to come up with any other excuses. Best to keep beating the last horse till it’s well and truly deceased. Unfortunately, this brings up an image of ground equine like she’s seen in European factories, covered in a generous serving of Carolina’s best concoction of tomato and brown sugar.

Nat pulls the phone from her ear to her cleavage and heaves hard. For a moment everything hangs in limbo, and she’s not sure where the sickness in the pit of her stomach is going to come from next. But then with another cough, it’s all down her chin and speckled across the toilet seat, pink and gluey.

“Nat?” Steve’s muffled voice asks, the phone buzzing in time with his words and sending minute vibrations through her shirt and into her very skin. “You ok? What’s going on?”

She has a split second to decide what to say. If she hangs up, he’ll be onto her in a second. If she makes an excuse, will he buy it? Can she claim PMS? Has she told him yet that she’s infertile? Nat clenches her abs and glutes as she tries to remember.

“Natasha?”

“I’m just sick,” she says guiltily, hanging her head in mock shame that feels more than real. 

“I thought you were smoking…” He’s suspicious now. Nat can practically see the concerned crease between Steve’s eyebrows.

“I was.” Nat breathes through a cramp. “I just, uh, it’s been too long. Turned my stomach.”

She’s surprised when Steve starts to laugh. “Hm. Yeah,” he says with a chuckle. “I know how that is. Only happened to me about twenty times before Buck finally banned me from cigarettes…” He sounds almost wistful now.

“Yeh.” Nat does her best to agree while swallowing another rising gag.

“You want me to come? Best remedy there is to have something to eat. Maybe rice and egg drop soup?” Steve offers. “I promise to leave the barbecue there.”

Nat would smile if she thought she could. Maybe. Possibly. She hasn’t yet decided. What she can do is grimace as her lower abdomen begins to twist in a manner of more familiar discomfort.

“Nah,” she whispers, trying not to gasp in pain. “I think I’m just gonna go to bed.”

Steve sighs over the other end of the line. He pauses, then says, “Ok. Later, then?”

Nat knows she isn’t getting off the hook. Best she can do is keep him away long enough to let her empty out in peace. She doesn’t know how long it’ll take. Hours, possibly. 

She doesn’t know what time it is, but Nat assumes it’s close to the lunch hour, since it’s light outside and Steve’s so hell bent on food. “Maybe dinner?” she poses. 

“Sure,” Steve says with what can only be described as a sigh as relief. It must confirm to him that she’s not too far gone. 

Nat’s pleased with what she’s managed to do, but now guilt squeezes her gut and threatens to make her sick all over again. 

“Eight, maybe?” Steve suggests. “I’ll bring the food.”

“Yeah, ok.” Nat’s mouth is watering again, but not with anticipation of the meal to come. She wants to get off the phone before she vomits again, or, god forbid, before her body decides to do anything else. “Thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

“Ok. See you.” Nat lowers the phone and presses the red button before Steve finishes saying goodbye.

“Ok,” she sighs, lowering her forehead to the toilet seat again. “Ok.” She glances down at her phone again to check the time. Just under seven hours to go. It’s more than enough time. She’ll be fine. 

Nat considers bolting across the tiny studio to crack the window and air the place out, but her stomach drops again, and she knows she won’t make it in time. Oh well. Just another thing to do later, then. Along with cleaning up. Getting dressed. Readying the disaster of an apartment for favorite unwanted houseguest. 

Because for fuck’s sake, it’s not supposed to happen this way. 


End file.
